First Sighting of Zombies

Gonga had just finished a long day of playing the accordion at Speaker’s Circle to advertise for his employer. I was ready for adventure, anything out of the ordinary. But Gonga simply trudged home and stowed the accordion under his bed. He sat for a minute with his head in his hands, replaying the events of the week before. One night on top of the engineering building was enough for him.

I remembered Yellow Bandana, shouting at Pete to go home and get his gun.

It was all like a bad dream, quickly fading away.

“A yellow bandana,” I smiled to myself and looked in the mirror. Gonga’s shaggy face peered back at me with his typical plasticized expression. I kicked open the door of my closet and reached into a box on the top left shelf. A bright blue bandana came out. I rolled it on itself and wrapped it around my head.

Gonga looked good in blue. He grunted appreciatively at his reflection, remembering his days as a youngster in his home country, dancing late into the night, decked in bandanas of every hue.
He walked out of the house, breathing deeply of the night air.

A light fog trailed through the alleys, giving the street lights an eerie glint. Gonga looked up at the full moon doing its best to outshine the lights. Even the moon looked green compared to normal.

Gonga drifted along the streets, gravitating towards the columns on campus; his favorite spot on the whole University.

Then he heard it.

A roar.

Of some tortured thing.

Or many tortured things. It was pulsing through the air, varying in intensity, but never ending.
He paused at the north end of the quad, looking towards Jesse Hall. Indistinct shapes surged around the building on all sides. The roar continued. Gonga eased closer.

People were milling around Jesse Hall. At least, they looked like people. But they were growling, roaring, howling, as if they were mad.

Unconsciously, the hair on the back of Gonga’s neck rose. He sank to the ground and blended into the shadows.

“Die,” someone hissed out of the darkness. A flurry of foam darts followed the statement, pelting Gonga.

In surprise, he leapt to his feet.

A band of five darkly dressed figures with bandanas wrapped around their arms brandished nerf guns.

“You’re dead, hand over your ID,” one the figures declared, stepping forward and holding out his hand.

To be continued.